


Bellyache

by AcidicNightmare



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternative Timeline, Angst, Dark, Dark Magic, Dystopian, F/M, Hermione!Legilimens, Legilimency, Occlumency, Psychological Drama, Redemption, Slow Build, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22799017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcidicNightmare/pseuds/AcidicNightmare
Summary: After spending years on the run and in constant battle with Voldemort’s rising ranks, Hermione Granger has developed a bleak outlook on life. Although our haroine has developed many useful skills during that time, she feels as though her sense of self is slipping away to the never-ending war.That is, until she is recruited to the headquarters for the Order and given a very important task. One involving a very high-ranking, and very blond, wizard.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Bellyache

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Heavy angst, slightly dark. Reader’s discretion advised.

* * *

_  
"Maybe it's in the gutter, where I left my lover, what an expensive fate.  
My V is for Vendetta, thought that I'd feel better--  
But now I got a bellyache"  
  
_

_-[Billie Eilish](https://youtu.be/CrB32aq7eJs) -_

* * *

**  
Chapter One**

_Day 1198 - Hour 19:00_

Beads of sticky sweat break out, gather, a drop lingers a moment before falling. She wants to reach up, wipe away the heat, but something inside refuses. The summer days are approaching, another mark to another year.

It’s hot. Impossibly hot, and the ever-growing body count within the cramped safe house makes it nearly unbearable. They've given up on cooling charms, not that those ever lasted long enough to begin with. Faces are slicked with sweat, body temperatures rise, and so does the anger along with it. You can feel it pulsating. Throbbing. You can measure it. See it. Hear it, even. The once-emotion has become a full fledged physical force, swirling like a typhoon. 

Destruction.

Hermione watches as life-long friendships deteriorate before her. What had once been a bright and roaring flame quickly flickers, fading out into the murky liquid of vast nothingness. Smoke billows; flowers wilt; a child cries somewhere off in the distance— reaching for the comfort of a mother who's not even there.

The first few months were spent in a state of childish unawareness, and it was that same euphoric ignorance that gave force to the camaraderie. Soft touches, love-torn stares, comforting hugs; a mask to the impending fate. Families were still whole back then. Not anymore. Not nearly.

War changes things. The environment, society, but _people_ especially, right down to their very temperament. It soaks into the skin, blackening everything in its wake. There’s something disconcerting about that fact, yet comforting. She doesn't know which is worse.

From the outside, it makes perfect sense. It’s only logical. But there is an abnormal uneasiness about it, too… a certain _something_ that puts one continuously on edge. You'll never rest. Not really, anyway.

She noticed Ron first, and it started with his eyes. What had once been a burning passion behind tsunami blue swiftly declined, crashing to a dull (and perhaps even lifelessly still) body of water. Yet she stayed with him, holding on to that tiny slip of comfortability established from what semblance she had of a childhood. 

They ate together, battled together, and even shared a bed on lonely nights. But their movements were almost inhuman, nearly mechanical-like. It was as if their bodies had been pre-programmed for the actions, with no feeling or desire pressing beneath the soft touches of padded fingertips. She hated it. She hated him, even. And despite her growing intolerance for the boy, she hated herself enough for the both of them.

Palpable.

But it’s always easier to notice the ways of others, she supposed. Their deviations, however slight, simply become far more apparent much more quickly, hitting you like a train in the dead of winter. This happens, of course, far before the moment you finally turn in on yourself and take a good look from the outside.

It’s a revelation a mirror can’t provide you.

A loud snap and crash startles Hermione from rapidly deteriorating thoughts, and she looks up just in time to see Seamus Finnigan’s body smash to the wall a few yards away. His spine hits the hardened concrete and he drops, groaning as his body collides with the dirtied stone flooring. Her eyes quickly flick, landing on a weakened Lavender Brown just across from him. Eyes sullen, t-shirt drenched in sweat, the witch stands in a common battle stance; wand drawn.

“Don’t come near me again!” the blonde sneers, adjusting her shoulder to straighten the loose hanging t-shirt. She’s pale and thin, impossibly thin, sickly thin. They all are, but the heaving of shallow breaths jut her ribs out much more noticeably. “You disgust me,” she spits for good measure. All eyes are on the pair, but not one spectator utters a word. Hermione included. 

Silence is still, the air is dry, a pin drop could echo throughout entire continents at that moment and no one would even flinch. Lavender stomps off and climbs the stairs, taking two at a time. A door slams. Seamus draws himself to his feet, muttering several creative swear words as he tries to avoid the onlookers.

Lovers turned enemies.

As if fate had planned that exact moment, a familiar hand snakes its way around her midsection from the opposite direction. Bile rises, but she throws Ron a tight-lipped smile as she struggles to choke it back down.

She hates when he touches her. 

* * *

_Day 1211 - Hour 04:00_

**  
**Villainous cackling echoes from a distance, but Hermione is determined to stay focused as flashes of bright light fly past her head at a startling proximity. The smell of burnt hair and scorched flesh pierces her nostrils, and she tugs a black bandana up over the bridge of her nose to ward off the taste.

Squinting through the smoke and fog, figures fly past her as she begins to count her breathing. 

One, out. 

An explosion breaks out, bodies fly.

Two, out. 

Three, out.

Protego, Avada, Protego, Avada.

Her moral determination to not use such spells has since passed, a silly and weak endeavor to keep her soul in one piece, she supposes. As weeks upon months upon years linger on, Hermione realises that it was merely the reality of war. Her former days spent throwing binds and jinxes were limited. It didn’t last long until she had given up, tattered and worn, and went for blood. It had only been fair, after all. No one was sending a tickle jinx in her direction.

“ _Sectumsempra_!”

The body of a masked man falls before her, throat torn clean open upon utterance. Fresh blood saturates the soles of her boots, mingling with the mud and stone of the earth. There was once a time that metaphor would not have gone unnoticed, but she simply steps right over the lifeless form and keeps moving. 

One, out.

Two, out. 

“A _vada Kedavra_!”, another thump. 

Three, out.

There’s no time to stop, to observe, to mourn or to cry. Action is her reality. It's everyone's. One misstep, one slight hesitation, and you were dead. And what’s the Order going to do with yet another slain soldier? The deceased don’t win wars. Once you take that last final breath, your usefulness ceases to exist, and you’ll soon be replaced and forgotten.

Truthfully, sometimes it doesn't sound so bad. Almost peaceful, even.  
  


* * *

_Day 1246 - Hour 19:00_

  
Dripping. The sound is ricocheting out from somewhere behind her. It's unpleasant enough to put her on edge, to heighten her senses, but it doesn’t dawn on her to seek out the origin.

No, Hermione is too busy trying to find the light.

The scene is pitch-black in front of her, an obsidian nightmare that has swallowed her whole like a beast feasting on its prey. Padded footsteps echo to the rhythm of the drips, but she doesn’t call out— no matter how impulsively she wants to. After all, she feels the eyes on her.

Dark, absent of colour, all-encompassing, hungry. She knows not of what monsters might lurk just out of reach, but there is one thing that's certain... She doesn’t want to tempt them. 

Chills.

She's trying to settle her breathing, as it’s _way too fucking loud,_ but her chest beats harder against her ribcage, rattling and thundering to her eardrums. If she stands completely still, she swears she can hear the blood rushing through her veins. The pressure of arteries register as crashings of a wave. It picks up even more now, torturing her, she freezes in place.

_Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip._

She’s scared. No— she’s utterly terrified, that much is certain. Given the chance, she wouldn’t hesitate to rip the raucous organ from her own chest, stomping on it until the rhythm ceases to exist… if only she had the means.

_Drip. Drip._

Time slows down, her hearing tunnels, and she squeezes her lids shut. Somehow the gesture helps. It focuses her. Not like she can see anything with them open regardless. 

Slowing her breathing, Hermione reaches out and begins to shuffle her feet ever so carefully forward once again. Every screaming atom in her body calms the faintest amount when her fingertips reach a flat surface, cool to the touch. She uses this to steady herself, her eyes still screwed tightly shut.

_Drip_.

Her feet pick up pace again as she runs her arm along the wall, feeling for a light switch in desperation. All she needs is light. A torch would do, or even the softened flicker of a match flame. Every cell in her body craves it. Where is her wand?

_Drip. Drip_.

She’s practically running now, and she can feel the tight grip of the darkness follow. Before long, she trips, falls, and crashes to her knees. A laugh rings out in front of her; maniacal, cruel, torturous.

Bellatrix.

Her mind soars back to long battles, bodies dropping, blood splattering the back of her neck. Her world is spinning, and she might get sick. 

But a part of her is confused, bewildered by being taken off guard. She is a soldier, and has been for years. It’s not as if she hadn’t heard that same bone-chilling cackle dozens, if not hundreds of times before.

It’s a sickness the masked ones had, pleased while slaughtering. A maliciousness never quite matched by anything else. She’s not even sure they were the type to go back and gather their wounded or mourn their fallen. Not that the Order did either at this point. But there's a difference. There's always a difference.

She crawls on all fours in what she thinks is the direction of the wall, and she's right. But as soon as she touches the base, the laughter halts. Everything grows quiet, the dripping comes to a halt before a flash of light makes its presence known. Bright and blinding, she squints. It dims into blackness again. 

Before she can gather her thoughts, it happens again. Bright white, blackness. And again. Over, and over, and over again— and that’s when the face of Malfoy appears. She notices the hair first.

Right in front of her, dressed to sophistication just as he was in school days, and he's sneering at her. She does nothing but stare back into those cool grey eyes, mouth held slightly agape as the lights flickered on and off around them in a frenzied rave-like atmosphere… and then they stopped.

Blackness.

“How could you do this?”

It's Ron’s voice, sullen and weak. When the lights flash once more, Hermione's heart clenches, dropping to the very pit of her stomach. 

In place of the Malfoy heir, now sits a familiar ginger. His formerly blue eyes drowned in a sea of crimson. Ron-- Bloodied, disfigured, and chained to the floor before her. He has something just around his neck, a locket of some sort. The sight is gore filled and terrifying, but for some reason, it's that little detail that draws her in; whispering sweet nothings from afar.

Dark magic. Jaded and tempting, singing songs of unattainable promises. Her mouth waters, and it takes all of Hermione's strength to tear her eyes back to his and heave herself to her feet. She stands on wobbly knees and wills herself forward.

“Ron!” she screams once, her vocal cords cracking, tearing to shreds as she rushes towards him. Before she can reach, however, the absence of light swallows her once again. She cries out, crashing back to her knees. The cackling returns, booming her ears, mocking her into madness.

_“Mione’, wake up!”_

* * *

_Day 1246 - Hour 22:00_

“I don't trust it.”

“Luckily you don't have to, Potter, you've just got to take the orders.”

“But Dumbledore said…”

“Watch it, boy. Dumbledore isn't around and there's no way he coulda' known what place we'd end up in.”

“We need her, though. You can't just send her gallivanting off with a shotty team and barely any--"

“ _Excuse me_ but if you could refrain from speaking as though I'm not standing right in front of you, that would be ideal.” Hermione huffs out in a hoarse voice, dropping her previously tucked arms. 

The argument falters for a minute, heavy footsteps soon follow. The thin door behind her crashes open, revealing a disheveled looking Ron, “What'd I miss?”

Harry's brows furrow, his mouth set into a thin line as his green eyes snap back and forth between his best friends. “Moody wants to break us up.”

"Wha--"

A heavy book drops onto the mapping table with force, the senior Auror glaring at Harry with an unspoken insult. He rips out a chair to sit. “Didja think you all would just stay together forever, jumping from safe house to safe house? Think you were gonna skip merrily around the country by day and casually risk your lives in battle by night, did ya?” 

“I--"

_Slam,_ “We are losing a _war_ , Potter!” 

The room silences. Only the sound of Moody's enraged breathing occupies the space now. The air feels thick. The usual taste of death lingers, contaminating, mixing with a fever of helplessness. Bloodshot eyes roam.

Hermione reaches up, runs her arm along her slick brow. She doesn’t want to give away her thoughts on the subject. Doesn’t want to show how badly she wants this, to get away from Harry. From Ron. From the lot of them, really. She feels as though she’s suffocating, trapped beneath a wave of despair, wanting desperately to shock herself back to reality.  
  
“She’s the best strategist we’ve got.” Harry continues, his voice much more calm, yet firm. Her heart aches for her treacherousness as well as his loyalty. If only she had an ounce of his bravery, a drop of his will power. He’s stubborn, and prideful. So very prideful, even still. She’s both awed and disgusted.

“I take offense to that,” Moody mumbles. It’s his attempt to lighten the mood. So very out of character, downright shocking in fact, but it does nothing. The statement falls on deaf ears, lingers through the air without any absorption. 

“This isn’t a snap decision,” he continues, his magical eye flickering between Ron and Harry. “She’s been requested personally. While she’s a great strategist, we have many more who can get the job done. They need her at the Entrypointe. That’s final.”

Moody’s eye snaps to Hermione who is chewing the dead skin from her thumb, a weight lifting in her chest. “You leave in a week.” he says. Dropping her hand with finality, she nods just once before turning on her heels and exiting the room.

No one follows.

* * *

_  
Day 1255 - Hour 06:00_

_BZZZZZ_.  
  
The sound is obnoxiously loud, and it almost throws her off balance as it rings out. There are two guards flanking her, standing annoyingly close. She picks up her pace as the barbed-fence slides open. The men have a tight grip on their wand, the other hand grasping something towards the back of their trousers.  
  
She walks in silence, passing more security who seem to be holding-- wait, are those _guns_? Her pulse picks up, she faces forward and trudges on. It’s better not to ask questions.

_BZZZZZ._   
  
She wishes the damned building would stop making that god-awful noise every time she approaches, but this time she’s come to a set of thick metal doors. She stops, beginning to count her breaths. One.. two… thr.. “Name?” a crackled voice rings out, interrupting her.  
  
“H--” she begins, stops, coughs. “Sorry, Monica Dawn.”  
  
The intercom clicks off within an instant, and she re-adjusts the strap of her bag before picking at the sleeve of her robes. She can feel the slight bulge of her wand tip pressing on her pulsepoint, and it helps puts her at ease. A bit, anyway.  
  
“Password?”

Hermione’s brain blanks. “Oh, hold on…” she says as she hurriedly plunges her hands into her pockets and fumbles with the small slip of paper. “Purp...Purple parsley?”  
  
“Are you asking or telling me?” the voice responds immediately, as if whoever stood on the other side was waiting, ready to pick apart her tone. American prick.  
  
“ _Telling_.” she snips back.  
  
The intercom clicks off once again, and there’s silence for a beat. She shoves the parchment back into her robes, biting her tongue in annoyance as she checks for a watch she doesn't own.  
  
 _BZZZZZZ_.  
  
She jumps, eyes clenched in annoyance.

The door unlatches, and one of the guards pushes past, leading her into a dingy hallway. 

Overhead are a scattered amount of fluorescent bulbs, half flickering, a quarter gone out completely. The floor looks scrubbed well enough, but there’s grime around the edges. A certain sort that she knows will never get clean. Not without magic, at least. 

The sound of their footsteps echo from wall to wall as the group approaches the small barred window at the end of the hallway. A friendly looking woman meets Hermione’s gaze from beyond it, the guard to her left grips her elbow. A silent demand to stay quiet.

“Booking.” He says, voice deep and sleep deprived, yet authoritative.

The woman looks back at Hermione, her eyes inquisitive. “ID number?”

“Inmate 41387”

* * *

_Day 1246 - Hour 16:00  
_

Hermione is de-loused and strip searched. A truly horrible and traumatic experience since she’s arrived to the Muggle jail— yes, a sodding _prison—_ and as a soldier of war, that’s saying something. 

But her wand has been given back discreetly after the fact, so the witch remains silent and compliant throughout the whole ordeal. In fact, she only _once_ glares daggers at the guard handing her what looked to be blood red scrubs to put on, a thick padded patch reading “INMATE” in bold black letters across the chest and back.

He smiles.

But something in her pushes to oblige, and she soon allows herself to settle into the small cot at the back of the concrete cell she’s been put in. She idly wonders to herself if she would be so willing under different circumstances. A fleeting thought, as “what if” theories usually turn very grim, very quickly. 

She’s been given some bread and a thin soup, which is scarfed down quickly to soothe her aching stomach. It’s been years since she’s eaten anything she didn’t have to kill first herself. It’s a welcome change, albeit a guilty one. Everyone back at camp is no doubt feasting on squirrel carcass, or munching on berries. 

A sluggish exhaustion takes over her, arms beginning to feel heavy. It feels as if she’s spent the last several hours holding her organs in a bowl, outstretched from her body. Her lids begin closing upon protest, but only a moment of panic sets in before the witch slides comfortably into the silent, dreamless nothingness that awaits her embrace.

* * *

_Day 1248 - Hour 01:00_

“Hermione?” 

Out of the nothingness comes a brilliant white light. A voice beckons her forth, and she shuffles towards it, scuffing her feet. 

“Hermione Granger?” It speaks again, soft and lulling, with an underlying force of demand. The light dims as she nears, flickers for several beats before shining even brighter. She hesitates, squinting as she’s engulfed.

Her hearing tunnels, and within minutes new sounds begin sweeping in waves. A steady beeping that, if she thinks hard enough, realizes must have been there for quite some time now. There’s a finger pressed firmly against her inner wrist, and it takes almost all of her energy to try and twist out from the grip. She groans.

“I’ve got movement, heart rate has elevated—“

_Who?_

“—increased chance of hypoxia. We’ll need to get her labs before—“

Woman’s voice. Sounds older. Maybe 60s. Wait… Hypoxia? 

“—frey needs to be let go. Seriously, any additional drop could have caused—“

She groans again.

“Is.. is she awake? Hermione?”

Her eyes open slowly, but the fluorescent bulbs above prove to render her blind. She squints. “‘Can—“ she begins to say, but her throat is on fire. Flames lick their way up, tugging at her vocal chords. She coughs. Once, twice, and again.

“Agnes, get some water.” There’s a rush, she can hear it in her voice, an urgency thinly masked. Hands are on her shoulders, and Hermione wants to bat them away, but suddenly she’s sitting up and they’re gone, her head spins.

“Hermione Granger?” The first voice says again, as she now feels someone clasping a small styrofoam cup to her hands. Is… is she in a hospital? A muggle hospital? The beeping brings her clarity, a heart monitor.

The only thing that comes out is a choppy “yes”, ringing out in broken whispers. Groggily, she brings the cup to her mouth and gulps down the cool liquid.

“Where am I?” She chokes out.

Her eyes are open now, but everything is blurry. All she sees is colours, smeared haphazardly across the feathered canvas that is her vision. 

“Don’t strain yourself, dear...” One of the blobs says, a new voice, soothingly pushing her back against the cot. Hermione bats the arm away, her upper body swaying. “we’ll get to all that, but first I need to do a few tests. Do you think you can handle that?”

“What happened?”

A soft pat on the wrist, “all in good time, Dear. Now tell me… what year is it?”

* * *

_Day 1248 - Hour 14:00_

The room is white, the smell of sterilization is overwhelming, it overtakes her head. The cot beneath her is thin, and it’s the only thing in the room. The walls are also padded, but she sits patiently, trying not to overthink. 

A knock at the door sounds. It’s feather light, but to her it sounds like thunder. Angry.

“Ms. Granger?” A voice calls out, male this time. Her eyes flick to the turning handle, and before she knows it, Kingsley Shacklebolt is standing before her. He’s aged a bit, crows feet and forehead wrinkles. Salted hair feathers his temples. He’s clean shaven, though. Something rarely seen on male order members as of late, and he looks freshly showered.

Her brows knit, his mouth tugs in a polite smile. “I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

Kingsley eyes her in silence before withdrawing a wand, conjuring a small stool from thin air. She waits as he sits, positioning himself before his eyes meet her again. Eyes flick to the door, then back to him.

“They’re not muggles,” he states flatly, almost as if reading her mind. “We’re at the Entrypointe. You’re in the hospital wing.”

Instinctively she looks around, as if the new information will suddenly make her see the room differently. Nope, still the same white padded walls. Same thin cot, too. She shifts.

“I don’t understand,” Hermione manages, voice horse. “The prison…”

The false minister’s eyes soften and he nods upwards. “We’re beneath it. And... as far as the muggles are concerned, you are simply Monica Dawn, inmate number 41387, arrested on high profile world-wide terrorism charge.”

She nods. “I was drugged for transport.”

The answer comes too easily to her. A sharpness she hasn’t seen in ages. A grunt acknowledges her. 

“The guard that admitted you is being obliviated and transferred later tonight. The overdose didn’t seem intentional, but we take no chances.” Kingsley is cool and calm, eyes giving way to no emotion as he regards her.

“So what do you need with me?”

His face is stone as he looks at her, and she briefly wonders if he’s going to give her the run-around. The nurses seemed awful adapt at it, why shouldn’t he be?

“We need you for the defects,” he finally spits out, offering no additional information beyond that. 

She’s heard about the defects, but before now never paid them much mind. Rumors of all sorts echo throughout the order, but to live as though they have any factual sustenance could be dangerous… depending on the rumor. 

As Voldemort’s strength grows, more fear is pumped throughout the masses. Public pressure to choose a side is at an all-time high, and, well… who would choose the losing side? Truth is bitter, and the taste of it fills her mouth to the brim.

“Why me?” her tone is acid, but she quickly transforms her face into one of cool ease. Kingsley’s eyes flick to her. He smirks.

“Because we can’t afford any more mistakes.”

* * *

_Day 1250 - Hour 15:00  
_

Hermione is being released from the hospital today. What could have taken a mediwitch a day to do under normal circumstances, took these healers a solid three. With potion ingredients scarce and access to supplies limited, they seem to have implemented a hybrid of muggle medicine and magic in one. It slows them down, but keeps people alive, so who can really complain?

Well, possibly Gerald Marley. The boy down a few doors has been moaning for several days, much to her dismay. Okay, yes, splicing yourself straight at the thigh might hurt quite a bit, but the constant screaming for hours on end is grating her already thin nerves. Silencing charms have helped, but having them wear off at god-knows-what-time in the morning was never a pleasant way to wake up.

Immediately, the thought brings her guilt. She glances down to her hands, picking at the hem of her jumper. 

Dark circles and thick bags sit prominently beneath her eyes. Her hair, although now cut to her chin, is a knotted mess, and her muscles ache something fierce. She stares at the witch behind the desk through hooded lids, clearing her throat now and again in a desperate attempt to help rush along the paperwork.

It’s an odd sort of place to be in, the Entrypointe. If not for the dead-eyed people surrounding her, one would never know the horrid destruction that took place outside its very walls. Whoever constructed the place seems to be a master in charms unlike any other she’s seen. There’s an illusion of the outside. A charming little town located conveniently right beneath a sodding prison.

What a world.

She glances out the window, her mind’s eye briefly flickering, watching as the scene turns from a lovely garden to a fire-ridden war zone. Ashes fall, screams ignite, her breathing quickens. 

“Take two a day until your pain goes down. If you have any left, try and bring—“

“What are these for?” Hermione asks, thrust from her thoughts. Her brow furrows as she glances at the pill bottle sat before her, then back to the dark-haired woman standing in front of her.

The healer studders, seemingly taken off guard by the abrupt questioning. “They’re pain pills,” she finally answers. It sounds more like a question. “I know tablets aren’t nearly as potent as potions, but unfortunately we’re in short supply. Even muggle medication has its limits.”

Hermione nods her head, half-heartedly disregarding the current information to get to the point. “To which _pain_ are you referring?”

The mediwitch looks at her quizzically, “You had several broken bones and torn ligaments when you arrived, Miss Granger. They’ve aged, mind you, but the heal jobs were shotty at best, and I do believe—”

Gerald’s screams echo down the hall, bouncing off of the linoleum flooring and flat, blank walls. Her stomach churns.

“ _Are_ you,” Hermione’s voice rises a few octaves, “ _Or are you not_ in short supply of these things, Ms…”

“Narian, ma’am. And yes, we are, but I’m under strict orders to make sure you receive them.”

“From who?”

At this point, the healer seems tired of dealing with the young Muggleborn. A part of Hermione feels bad for giving the woman a rough go. Yet another part, a much more dominant part, is incredibly irritated at receiving specialized treatment. Her pain, or lack thereof, is _her_ business. Not the business of—

“Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

Bingo.

* * *

_  
Day 1250 - Hour 16:00_

A door slams, dark eyes snap to her. She’s attempting to conceal her anger, wants to stifle the feeling of invasion, shove it deep inside herself and swallow it whole. Her arms wobble as Kingsley watches her with his typical mask of cool ease. She tosses the orange bottle to the bin, just a few paces away. It makes a loud _clunk_ , telling her she’s met her mark.

The gesture is symbolic, of course. 

His gaze travels, following the bottle, then back to her. He waits, silently, hoping for her to speak but she says nothing. Only laboured breathing occupies the room from her end. She won't break, she convinces herself. She’ll blast a hole through the charmed sky and climb through the shattered remains, fleeing to Voldemort himself before she gives in.

He’s noticed. His face relaxes, and he gestures to the chair sat before his desk. The young witch obliges, digging fingernails into her palm to keep herself grounded. “‘I didn’t mean to impose, Miss Granger,” he says, eyes softening.

“But you did,” there’s ice to her tone. Finality. It’s clearly caught the Minister off guard, which surprises her. Shacklebolt is a man of both too many words, and too few. He confidently adapts to whoever he’s speaking, morphing himself into what’s required. There’s been speculation of legilimency, but Hermione knows that’s not the case. No, she suspects a calm demeanor, the impeccable talent of detecting body language, and intuition. But right now, she requires his acceptance, and like clockwork, that’s what he provides.

“Duly noted.”

Her shoulders relax a bit, she chews the side of her mouth and averts her eyes. “I expect no special treatment. If the rest of the order goes with less, so do I.”

He nods. A silent agreement, one she hopes he keeps.

Standing from the desk, he glides to the bin and plucks the medication off the top. He gives it one small shake before setting it down. Out of the way. Forgotten. “I’m glad you’re here. We need to discuss your first case.”

She snorts at the verbiage. He’s acting as though Hermione is beginning her first day of work at the Ministry, and not in an underground bunker; hiding out as her loved ones fight for their lives in the field. Surely he’s aware of how asinine it sounds, but time is of the essence, at least she supposes. “We have a prisoner—“ 

“Prisoner? I was made aware I was working with defects.”

“And you will be, but this is a special case. One that will most likely be very challenging and extremely labour intensive. They’ve been in our care for well over two months now, and have yet to utter a single word.”

“Veritaserum?” 

“Seems to have no effect,” he drawls. “Our best guess is that he’s worked up a tolerance. Whether it’s been done purposefully or not has yet to be determined.”

Hermione flicks a brow, “Imperious?”

“Resistant almost entirely. Farthest we’ve gotten is a few grunts and strains, nothing of any use, of course.”

She follows up with a sigh, the pieces clicking together. “So I’m guessing he’s particularly skilled at Occlumency.”

It’s not a question. She doesn’t even need the validation of such a claim. After years on the run, Hermione herself has become— as some say— a gifted witch when it comes to mind and memory magic. Not something that’s come naturally to her, it’s a learned skill, one of which requires constant upkeep, if not inborn. 

“The Entrypointe has some of society’s best curse breakers and memory hackers,” she draws. “Surely—”

“This is different,” he cuts in. “He’s a natural occlumens, one that’s been in the tight ring of _his_ circle since childhood. His inborn abilities have only strengthened by age and training from the best of their side.”

“I’m failing to see your logic here, Minister.”

“We need someone with a talent for mind magicks, that will ensure his sanity remains intact. One who knows him from a time in which he had been at his weakest...”

The last piece of the puzzle falls into place. Her vision tunnels, a lump forms in her throat. Amber eyes meet coal, her lids widening. The earth feels like it’s swirling. 

Kingsley closes the gap between them, resting his hand atop her shoulder, steadying her as he opens his mouth to answer her much needed validation.

“Hermione… we have Draco Malfoy in custody, and you’re the last hope we’ve got at defecting him and using what he knows to end this war.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve decided to rip down my original writings for this story and expand on them in greater detail. Truth be told, I’ve worked on this for the better part of a year, and it’s very near and dear to my heart, so I would greatly appreciate any feedback— good or bad! Just don’t be an ass about it, because then I’ll get defensive and you’ll make me cry, then you’ll get canceled on Twitter.
> 
> Joking! Gosh! Haha, but all jokes aside, I would greatly appreciate it. Presently, I’m not so sure how often I’ll update, but please understand this— I WILL be updating. I’ve put far too much time and effort into this, I physically cannot abandon it unless I have inexplicably died. In that case, I will make sure to tell someone to keep you all informed in the unlikely event of my sudden deceased state. Otherwise, expect infrequent updates. Thank you all for reading. Xx


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